Author's Note: Here's where things start to have a plot.
3. Insecurities
Part of the reason Frederick had fallen for Cordelia was because she was a perfectionist, as he was. In their younger years he'd felt a camaraderie toward her before he even first spoke to her, having seen her gracefully execute manoeuvres that had taken him months to master. He worked hard for perfection, but it came to her naturally, and he admired that. He was grateful that her desire to do well even extended into being a wife.
She did not love him, no, but they still had everything a successful marriage needed: friendship, patience, respect. Sometimes love seemed like a luxury, especially when she stayed up late to make his favourite sandwiches for the next day, or dressed his wounds for him, or mended the tears said wounds made in his clothing with a smile and a quip about how Frederick the Wary had not been wary enough.
If that was what simple friendly affection warranted from a spouse, he tried extra hard to show what love did. He picked wildflowers for her while on the march, rubbed the knots out of her neck every night before bed, got up early each morning to polish everything from her armour to the buckles on her boots, since he knew she liked everything to shine.
He tried not to be overbearing, as Chrom and Lissa accused him of being, but he knew that sometimes he irritated her. It must have been somewhere between stopping her during their march to brush her pegasus multiple times a day (he just couldn't stand when dirt from the road got into its white, white coat), or being unable to come to bed until the tent stakes had been inspected three times, or constantly asking questions when they made love just in case she was not enjoying herself. Still, for as tiring as he surely was, she never once snapped at him or acted exasperated. She remained patient with his small worries, accepting them completely as his quirks, and he was often touched by that.
His favourite part of being married to her—besides knowing she was always safe, at his side—was how he was constantly learning small things about her, things only a husband would know. She was always cold and wore her socks to bed. The insides of her wrists were very sensitive, and just tracing them with a fingertip could excite her. When she was drowsy in the morning she made soft humming noises and seemed to think she was speaking real words.
He didn't learn that she had any insecurities, however, for weeks. Not until he'd realized one morning while polishing her armour that the shape beneath his hand and the shape of her body didn't match up the way they should. When she woke, he already had his boots on and was ready for action.
"We're passing through town today," he told her as she sat up in the bedroll and he sat next to her. "While we're there, we can fit you for a new breastplate."
"What?" she asked. "I don't need a new one."
"But after all these days of polishing your armour, I couldn't help but notice that your breastplate far exceeds the size of your actual breasts."
She blushed. "Good morning! Blunt as always, I see."
"Wearing ill-fitting armour is dangerous," he continued. "Why did you not speak of the problem earlier? We have enough funds to—"
"I wear it too big on purpose!" she interrupted.
"But why?"
"You know, for all your attention to little things, sometimes you can be so dense."
"I suppose so," he admitted. "But I am sworn to keep you safe, and must understand why you would willingly expose yourself to such a danger." She mumbled something, and he leaned closer to hear her better. "Yes?"
"I said, it looks better! My chest is so small, I—I don't want anybody finding out!"
"You didn't seem embarrassed that I found out," he said. "Our wedding night it was quite dark, but the morning after—"
"There was no sense in hiding it from you. You're my husband. And you said you loved me." Her blush had only deepened.
"Cordelia," he said bemusedly. "Are you self-conscious about this?"
After a long moment she nodded, curtly. He could tell it was difficult for her to do so, and his bafflement only increased.
"Why would you ever feel that way? You're so perfect. Just look at you. Talented, and beautiful enough that every knight in Ylisse asked to court you before this war began, and with a figure like—"
"A boy," she finished for him sourly.
He was inclined to disagree. Strongly. But he didn't have enough time that morning to extol all the virtues of her body, for he would surely be there all day. So he simply told her,
"I think your breasts as wonderful as the rest of you. Besides, larger ones would be impractical in combat."
She snorted and covered her mouth with a hand, perhaps embarrassed of his bluntness or that she'd made such an unladylike sound. After a moment, she lowered her hand and he saw that she was smiling.
"Thank you, Frederick."
He wasn't sure what she was thanking him for, so he just cleared his throat and stood. "Come now; let's measure you so we can shop more quickly in town."
She stayed sitting and put her hands on her hips, insisting, "Oh, no! I'm keeping that breastplate. You can't make me give it up."
"It's a hazard," he protested, but she only lifted an eyebrow.
"I'll take the risk."
xxx
He remembered the exchange fondly in the days to come, feeling like he'd learned something very intimate about her, and like she trusted him. She seemed a lot more confident during the following nights, too, and demanded his attentions for the first time since they'd been married. While he began to be more tired during the day, between staying up late for her and getting up early to take care of things, it was a pleasant sort of tired. He was starting to feel like a better husband: stronger, more desirable, more capable.
He felt like he had no significant insecurities of his own, anymore. Even knowing that she still loved Chrom became easier to bear, after how comfortable their arrangement was. He was lucky to have her by his side, and thought that perhaps her unrequited feelings might stop troubling him completely, until one day she woke up and loved him instead.
He was proven sorely wrong the next night.
While he was readying for bed, she'd burst into the tent and kissed him with a passion he'd never encountered from her before. Surprised but pleased, he sank to the ground with her, knowing what she wanted without having to ask a single question.
Well, he had one, gasped out from between her kisses: "What's all this about?"
"I want to be a good wife."
"Of course you're a good—"
"I want to be a better wife."
For the next long while she was the best of wives, as far as he was concerned. She wasn't merely accepting him as she always had, or coercing him into acting so she could accept him, as she had the past few nights—she was needing him, for the first time, and it made him feel a deeper tenderness for her than ever before.
Until she cried out a name.
"Frederick," he corrected quietly as his heart tripped over itself.
"What?" She opened her eyes and met his.
"My name is Frederick."
Horror flickered over her face. She covered her mouth and sat up, but by then he'd pushed himself away and started pulling his clothes back on.
"Frederick, no, I can explain—"
"No need," he said shortly as he left the tent. It was the first time in his life he'd left something unfinished.
Since he obviously wasn't going to be able to return, he resigned himself to a sleepless night. The positive side he had told him that was several more hours he could spend cooking and cleaning around the camp to help the others, so he should make the most of them.
But for a long while, he couldn't. He just sat in the dark by the ashes of the cooking fire, not even twitching when the mosquitoes found him, lost in thought.
At first he wanted to be angry with Chrom, but he knew it was wrong to think ill of his lord, and he also knew that this wasn't Chrom's fault. The Exalt was and always had been completely oblivious of Cordelia's feelings.
He wanted to be angry with her, next. He tolerated her staring and her sighing and her blushes, because he knew she needed time. But for her to think of Chrom when they were being intimate? It seemed like too much for him to forgive, even if he truly loved her. It was cruel.
But he couldn't blame her, either. He had proposed even after she'd confessed the strength of her love. He had rushed them into marriage, too afraid to wait for her feelings to fade in case the war killed one of them, in case he was parted from her forever. He had been overconfident, assuming he could win her over, when surely such a brilliant woman understood her own heart well enough.
He was really the one to blame, the one he should be angry with.
Sometime around midnight, he found the strength to start a fire, so he could start cleaning weapons with its light. Moping was never useful. He should at least be productive while he was at it.
Author's Note: It's easy to villainize Cordelia for settling. Hopefully next chapter will fix some of that, since it's from her PoV, and she has some talking to do. It's fighting me at the moment, but I'll have it done and posted by Monday. Have a good weekend!